


Anger and Desperation

by Gummicat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gummicat/pseuds/Gummicat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. One year after his supposed death, Sherlock shows up at 221-B Baker Street, surprising and infuriating John. Antics ensue. [More smut! Rather loving smut, though, if that makes a difference.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John’s fist connects with the sharp angle of Sherlock’s jaw with a crack that echos through the flat.  
For a moment there is complete and utter silence. Sherlock puts his hand to his jaw. Rotates it slowly. Then, “I’m sorry. I thought you of all people would understand why I had to do what I did.” Hes been hit many times throughout his career, but never by gentle, forgiving John.  
“Understand?” it’s almost a hiss, “There was nothing to understand. No sign, no word for a whole fucking year.”  
He’s never heard this undercurrent of hatred in his friend’s voice before. Not when Sherlock would leave decomposing animal bits in the bathtub, not when he’d shoot holes in the wall or play mute for days on end. Not even when his obsession with his games almost got John killed. But it’s there now.  
“Do you understand, Sherlock Holmes? What it’s like for the light in your life to just wink out? Do you know what it feels like to wake up every morning knowing that you're alone in the world? No, of course you don’t. You’re as hollow and cold as a grave.”  
Their eyes lock. Search each other. Fury meets a desperation need for understanding.  
Sherlock closes the distance between them, placing his hands on either side of John’s lovely unshaven face, their lips smashing painfully together. The expression on John’s face quickly changes from anger to awe, and then he’s kissing him back like nothing else exists in the world.  
Fingers tangle in dark curls as they stumble backward into the wall. Sherlock’s hands have moved down to the small of John’s back, pulling him tight against his body, trying to compensate for every atom of distance between them in the past year. His fingers scrape up under the hem of John's stupid sensible jumper, tips digging into the flesh underneath.  
John's tongue presses against Sherlock's lips and he parts them obligingly. Their tongues scuff against each other with a frenzied energy. The fingers on John's left hand are clenching and unclenching in Sherlock's hair, the right is clamped around the back of his neck, holding him like he's terrified he'll disappear in a wisp of smoke.  
Sherlock's hands have begun roving up John's back now. He can feel the tightly corded muscles sliding underneath the skin. He's warm and solid and it feels so wonderful to finally be inside his embrace. He works the layer's of John's shirt and jumper up to his armpits, a desperate desire to feel his bare skin. John releases his grip on Sherlock just long enough for the other man to tug his clothing the rest of the way off and toss it unceremoniously to the floor.  
Sherlock's fingers are caressing the planes of John's chest now. Nails drag over nipples, evoking a tense shudder. They fan out down the trail of soft blonde hair covering John's lower stomach. Another shudder, then John's fingers are struggling with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt - it's beautiful, of course, like the man wearing it, but the soldier doesn't even spare it an appreciative glance in his quest to rip it off Sherlock's body. Sherlock of course notes this unhidden expression of lust. He can feel his cock stirring in his trousers.  
In mere seconds the shirt is laying destroyed in a heap on the floor and Sherlock's pale, cool flesh is colliding with John's hot skin. His mouth is on Sherlock's neck now. His lips are dragging along the ridges of the other man's collar bone, back and forth, stopping momentarily to skim his teeth over the delicate skin of Sherlock's adam's apple. Sherlock gasps, a small breath of sound pushing past his lips. John doesn't miss it, though, and presses his teeth into the flesh of Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock's mouth is covering John's in an instant, his hands fumbling desperately with the zipper of John's pants. The damn things are proving uncooperative, fueling his frantic need. When he finally gets them open he none too gently maneuvers his hand inside, grasping John's thick, stiff prick. John moans into Sherlock's lips, hands grasping his narrow hips for support. Sherlock wraps his strong fingers around his cock, squeezing gently as he begins to slide his hand up and down his shaft. John moans again, a long, low guttural sound. He's given up any ideas of kissing, his forehead now pressed against Sherlock's, mouth dropped open in pleasure.  
Sherlock quickly pulls his hand from John's pants, fingers instead looping into the waistband, working them down over his ass and erection. He grabs John by the hips, spinning him around to slam up against the wall. Then he drops to his knees at John's feet, lips wrapping around his cock.  
"Sherlock, what are you - oh God,"  
"Shut up" he growls around John's cock. He sucks for a moment at the sensitive nerves of the head before pushing his lips further down, tongue swiping over it instead like a shadow following in his lip's wake. John groans loudly, one fist slamming into the wall, the other fisting itself into Sherlock's curls, guiding his head back and forth, picking up speed.  
John begins pumping his hips in rhythm with Sherlock's motions, fucking the mouth of the man he thought he'd lost for good. Sherlock's tongue is pressed up against the tender glands on the underside of John's cock as it slides in and out of his mouth, and it feels so unbelievably fucking good that John can't hold back. He cries out something indistinguishable as he cums in his friend's mouth with a convulsive shudder. Sherlock, not missing a beat, swallows down the orgasm he's given John with immense self-satisfaction. It's thick, slightly salty and sour, and he wouldn't change a thing about it. He lets John's limp prick fall out of his mouth, smiling up at his newly acquired lover, cum dribbling down over his lip. "I should fake my death more often."


	2. Chapter 2

They've trailed through the flat to Sherlock's bedroom. It's exactly the way he left it. A perfectly preserved universe unto itself.   
"These are the same sheets I had on before everything happened," he says to John as they lay spread across them, both heads resting on Sherlock's single pillow (Two? What on earth would I need multiple pillows for when one supports my head just fine?).   
"We buried you in your coat... Well, I thought we did, anyhow. They were the only thing left that really..." John trails off, clearing his throat, "Of course they're the same."  
There's a long silence. Sherlock is so touched he can't think of a single thing to say for once.  
"There was so much blood," John says, "it just pooled underneath your head. I remember seeing you fall (he'd never say "jump"), then people screaming, and so much blood. John's thumbs trace along the darkened skin underneath Sherlock's eyes, "I thought I'd never see these again."  
"I almost thought you wouldn't want to."  
John props himself up on his elbow, "You can't possibly believe that."  
"I can't possibly believe that you never questioned what you believed. i thought as time went on you'd have started wondering - really wondering - how much of me was real."  
He shakes his head, "No. Not at all. I mean all I'd have to do was think back to the severed head in the ice box and know that no sane conman would have thought of that one."  
"Perhaps I was an insane conman"  
"Sherlock."  
Another pause.  
"What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you?"  
John snorts, "You're operating under the assumption you did something good to deserve me. I personally believe I tortured kittens or some other baby animal in a past life and this is karmic retribution."  
Sherlock's mouth stretches into a wide grin, his fingers stroking John's shoulder.  
"So are you going to tell me what really happened?"  
"Of course. Not now, though. There are some things more important than cleverness."  
This time the snort could be described as 'derisive'.  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Well it's a thrilling tale and I do wish to do it proper justice. At the moment there is another most, ah, pressing matter to be attended to."  
And he leans in to brush his still smiling lips over John's.  
Gentle kisses quickly turn demanding, tongues begin exploring mouths. Then necks. Then chests. Sherlock's skin burns where John's lips drag across it. He practically bursts into flame when the tip of John's tongue flickers across one of his firm nipples. Follows with a graze of teeth. His fingers are at Sherlock's trouser zip, and unlike the uncharacteristically fumbling sleuth, he has no trouble disarming the mechanism and removing the last offending bits of clothing.   
Then he's shimmied his way down Sherlock's body, trailing kisses across his flat stomach and abdominal, letting his tongue pass over his navel. He pointedly ignores Sherlock's blatant erection, moving his hungry mouth down the sides of those gorgeous hip bones and to his thighs. ("Going to be a bastard about this, then?" "M-hmm") John presses his hands on the insides of Sherlock's knees, spreading his legs apart. He crawls between them, lowering his lips again to kiss up the insides of his thighs. When he reaches Sherlock's testicles he brings his hand up to cup them.   
"Mmm... Ah..." Sherlocks eyes have fluttered closed. He had hoped John would take this as an affirmative sign, but he's stopped. A moment later, when the bedside cupboard is opened, and the thick slapping sounds of liquid being shook out of a bottle can be heard, Sherlock knows why. "Been snooping, have we?"  
"We're both men, Sherlock. It was simply obvious."   
John lets a dollop slide from the bottle onto Sherlock's testicles. He rolls them between his fingers, squeezing, massaging gently. Then he pulls them downward away from his body ever so slightly. Sherlock can feel the muscles in his arse constrict and his hips rise slightly in assent. John obliges, bringing his other hand and more lubricant into play. He drips some directly onto the sensitive head of Sherlock's cock, which is now quivering for attention. John slides his fingers down along Sherlock's stiff prick, immersing it in the uncomfortably cool jelly. The other hand still fondling his balls, John brings his mouth down to hover above Sherlock's cock, letting his warm breath wash over it, sending shivers of anticipation along Sherlock's spine. His lips slip over the tip and down in one fluid motion.   
Sherlock sighs and arches his back, pushing his cock into John's throat. He grips the back of John's head, forcing it in deeper, feeling his molars scrape over his throbbing manhood. He holds John there until he starts to struggle, then Sherlock lets him pull his head back, only long enough to gasp in a breath before he's shoving his cock in again. John pumps his head back and forth under Sherlock's guiding hand, lips and tongue sliding over the slippery skin. Faster, faster until Sherlock is panting.  
John, cock undeniably stiff once again, pulls his mouth back and away from Sherlock's, moving instead to straddle his hips. He squeezes lube onto his index and middle finger, locking eyes with Sherlock as he reaches behind his back to get himself ready. Sherlock's hand follows, squeezing John's ass cheek (Oh he's always wanted to do that) before slowly pushing his finger inside John's asshole.   
John sucks in a deep breath as Sherlock's finger slides in and out. Again. Again. Another finger follows suit, pushing open this unexplored area. Sherlock removes both of his fingers, wiggling himself up into a sitting position against the head of the bed, pulling John inevitably with him. He silences the questions on John's face by wrapping one arm loosely around his back as he leans forward to kiss him. With his other hand Sherlock guides his cock to John's ass, letting it push against the rim of his hole. Slowly, very slowly with their lips never parting he pushes inside.   
God, it feels incredible. Everything else in the world has ceased to exist except for himself and John Watson. The only thing stopping him from stuffing every inch of his cock into John is the look of concentration on his lover's face. He can tell John is in pain, is trying to push past it - for him, like always.   
He grips either side of John's ass with his hands, spreading his ass wide open. He guides his body down just a bit, very slowly, then back up again. He can feel John's muscles constricting, trying their best to pull him back inside. A little deeper this time. And still a bit more, over and over again until Sherlock can't help it anymore and begins to guide John up and down faster. Both men are moaning freely, one of Sherlock's hands still gripping that wonderful plush ass while the other has found John's, their fingers twining together. John's forehead is on Sherlock's shoulder, his free hand braced against the headboard as he moves his body, his best friend's cock sliding in and out over and over again.   
Sherlock can feel the tension inside his body build to a crescendo. His fingernails dig into John's arse cheek as he slams his cock balls deep inside him, cumming with the force of an exploding star. For precious seconds his world is the complete white blank of contentment. Only the feeling of John's hot, sticky cum splashing onto his stomach pulls him back to earth. The other man slumps down onto his chest. They stay like that for countless minutes, both very completely sated.

 

Afterward they twine together among Sherlock's bed sheets, arms around each other, exchanging slow butterfly kisses and caresses. The kisses eventually turn into whispers, which turn into small conversations - some ridiculous, none serious, which is how Mrs. Hudson finds them some time later when she bustles into the room. In her arms is a tray laden with tea and biscuits - the kind with the lemon jelly in the middle, Sherlock's favorite.   
"Sherlock, darling, I thought I might find you up here. I heard quite a fuss earlier and then some banging - but no gun shot or anything, so I figured it must be you. I expect to hear all about your adventures after you've had a spot of tea," she smiles down at them, setting the tray at the foot of the bed, apparently not surprised or embarassed in the least to find her renters in bed together. "Dear boys," she says as she shuffles out of the room "I'll bring up some of your boxes, then. They're down in C. Just this once though, I'm not your housekeeper."


End file.
